“Oh shiv ji you touched me emotionally made me cry while Iam
writing all about you. You were true son of Punjab
from heart and soul. I can feel your pain of separation from your beloved Place
of birth” katha Punjab “Maan” (mother)

I still remember it today, and you must remember it too
When, together, we murdered our mother.
My childhood was killed with the murder of my mother
And its cold corpse was left behind in your place.
Even now, I become quiet when I remember that
And lose myself in the thoughts of that half-a-body that was your share.
[Translation by Suman Kashyap].

“Balvant Gargi Hona nay kugh
ais taraan likhya aah….jehray
kavi darbar ch shiv day naal ghaiay‘This mushaira was organized by Principal O. P. Sharma on a very large
scale on the occasion of Guru Nanak’s 500th birthday … As soon as we appeared
on the stage, a wave of excitement ran through the audience on seeing Shiv.
They welcomed him with a loud round of applause …When he stood up to recite his
poetry, a trance-like silence dominated the hall. He read his poem, Safar (a
travel) … The vibrations of his enchanting and soft tunes touched the hearts of
everyone present. Suddenly he raised the pitch of his voice. He was challenging
Nanak. A poet was addressing another poet. He was saying to Guru Nanak: “See
how far your nation has travelled after you. Today they have travelled from
your name to the sword” … Shiv’s voice was resonating in the hall. He was
standing tall and there was a prophet-like grandeur in his voice … when the
poem ended … the girls started shouting for him to sing “Kee puchdey o haal
faqeeran da (What is the point of asking us faqirs how are we doing?) … Shiv
smiled and switching his mood he then sang the poem that he had sung hundreds
of time and each time it had won the hearts of his audience … When Shiv left
the microphone after reading three poems, no other poet could get the attention
of the audience. The spell had broken and people had lost their interest in the
kavi darbar. {Gargi 2000 ‘Haseen Chehre’}.

Shiv was a very versatile and supremely gifted poet. His
poetry includes poems written on many different subjects and a variety of
styles. He could write traditional Punjabi folks songs, as well as, poems in
post-modern diction and in many other verse forms. The only labels that may
properly apply to Shiv’s poetry are human-ism and Punjabi-ism. The deep pain
and sorrow of some of his poetry can best be understood in the larger context
of a Punjabi’s reaction to the crisis of human identity in modern times. He
articulated the tragedy of breakdown of Punjab’s
traditional society under the onslaught of modernization. He had lived his
childhood in a traditional village social set up that offered the poise,
equilibrium, stability, tranquillity and self-assurance of Punjabi culture.
Early in his adolescence, he experienced the sudden death of this centuries old
way of living. For a large part of his versatile poetry, Shiv embraced the
identity of a Punjabi folk storyteller and viewed the massive disruptions
around him from the historical perspective of someone deeply immersed in
Punjabi folklore. He became the passionate voice of millions of others who
were, and still are, going through the same crisis. His poetry became a vast
treasure of the fond memories of sights, sounds and symbols of the way of
living and the scenery of rural Punjab, never
so beautifully recorded in such breathtaking details except by the Great Master
of Punjabi poetry, Waris Shah. Ultimately, his permanent place among great
Punjabi poets is affirmed by his ever-growing popularity. He seems to have
passed the test for determining the status of faqirs, equally applicable to
poets, laid down by Sultan Bahu as:

Naam faqir tinhan da Bahu, qabar jinhan dee jeevay hoo.
(Bahu, only they deserve to be called faqirs, whose graves live forever after
their death).
Geet (A song)
The sun peeks out
From behind the high mountains,
Planting little seedling of light.
It crushes the yellow sunshine
Into small pieces,
To make anklets for the mountaintops!

Ankle deep in the wind
Flow fragrances,
The birds fall asleep.
Through a clump of green trees
A water channel flows
Piping a melody!

Seeing the blue lotus
In the mirror like water
The drooping leaves weep.
The wind has tied
Tiny anklets around its feet,
And stamps her heels as she walks! [Translation:
Suman Kashyap]

When the cotton flower blooms,
O noble father.
Bring that season back for me,
O noble father.

It was in that season that I lost my song.
Separation choked its throat,
Sorrow ravaged its face,
Like water in ruined wells were its eyes.
It was a song that brought to lips,
The scent of musk.
O noble father.
Bring back that song for me.
O noble father.

One day my song and I,
In that enchanted season,
Ploughed the earth of my heart,
Sowed it with seeds of undefiled dreams.
No matter how many tears I poured on it,
No flower bloomed.
O noble father.
Bring back one flower for me,
O noble father.

What use your fertile lands
If daughters wilt?
What use your lakes
If the swans are parched?
What use your ample wealth
Your granary of pearls,
O noble father,
If you cannot bring back the season,
When the cotton flower blooms.
O noble father.
[Translation: Suman Kashyap]

“Fire”
(“fire maiden” or “women-fire”)

Why should not fire speaks out friends?

I wish every hearth’s fire to leap
And break all bounds
With its scorching and burning
Tear up the pages of oppression
Why should anybody weigh our fire’s warmth
Against a handful of rice?
One day this fire
Shall speak out
Its eyes shall deliver
Instead of a tear
Blood of fi[e]ry rebellion
Which shall burn down the pride
Of the fire-eating salamadar, man [Translation:
Sekhon 1985]

Rukh (the Tree)

Some trees look like sons to me.
Some like mothers.
Some are daughters, brides,
A few like brothers.

Some are like my grandfather,
Sparsely leafed.
Some like my grandmother
Who used to throw choori to the crows.

Some trees are like the friends
I used to kiss and embrace.
One is my beloved
Sweet. Painful.

There are trees I would like
To throw on my shoulder playfully,
There are trees I would like
To kiss and then die.

The trees sway together
When strong winds blow.
I wish I could render
Their verdant, leafy language.

I wish that I could
Return as a tree.
And if you wanted to listen to my song
I would sing it in the trees.

These trees are like my mother,
May their shade stay intact. [Translation
by Suman Kashyap].

Peeran Da Praga (Handfull of Pains)

These characteristics are prominent in all of Shiv’s popular poems. One of his
early poems Bhatti Waliye may serve as a good example:

I will pay you with my tears,
Roast my store of sorrows in your pan,
O tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, you are a branch of frangipani,
Roast my store of sorrows

I am late already,
The shadows are fading.
The cattle have returned
From the forest.

The birds have raised their clamour,
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Hurry, hurry
I have far to go,
To the place where
All my friends have gone.

I hear the road to that town is difficult
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Why, when it is my turn,
Is your bale of kindling damp?
Why has your earthen wok
Turned flaccid?

What has gone wrong with your fire?
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Just a handful is my measure
Let me go on my way,
Don’t leave them raw
Roast them a little more.

I beg you, bring an end to this trouble,
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.
The wind has dropped
Wept its mournful cry.
The stars are emitting
A sweet heat.